Blooming
by Intricacy
Summary: There's always a wish left unaccounted for, a wish that'll exploit you before you realize it. Once upon a time, even Lucifer fell.


**Blooming**

_There's always a wish left unaccounted for, a wish that'll exploit you before you realize it. Once upon a time, even Lucifer fell. GW/TR_

Characters belong to JK Rowling.

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**Mission**

A dark Ginny – can she exist? Now, I've seen some fanfic authors totally pull this off. (I've also seen a good number that failed.) Other than that, I say no. I can't really imagine it. She's so stubborn and strong and she's got so much love around her that I can't see her giving all that up for power. Maybe I'm just a sucker for the evil-turn-good fairy tale cliché. All right, fine. I plead guilty. I definitely am a sucker for that.

But I wanted to explore writing a dark Ginny. Kind of hard, considering I don't really believe in that. Now, how do you write about a character you don't understand or even believe in? Good question. After writing this, I figured out the answer – you don't. You fail.

Still I decided to post it anyways to see how you'd respond. I should warn you: this didn't turn out the way I expected to at all. It totally transformed as I wrote. I had something along the lines of this segment in mind:

_She stilled the voice that threatened to shake, hand clenching the branch of a tree. "I wish that you'll take me away."_

_She heard a deep laughter. "I'm disappointed." She stepped around the tree she had been gripping to find Tom casually leaning against it, arms folded, eyebrow arched. "I hadn't been expecting to wait so long for you to realize what you wanted."_

Ended up never happening. Rather, this turned out to be more of an introduction to Ginny's turn toward the dark. A prelude of sorts. Pity it's just a one shot though, haha xP

Anyways, to shorten this section up. Enjoy the piece anyways, and **remember to cast your vote** – how legitimate is this? And do you believe that a dark Ginny is possible without going into the OOC realm? I'd love to hear why and all your concrit on this crap.

Let's get started.

xxxxxxx

She's eleven years old, anticipating what she has been waiting for her (short) whole life. With a giddy heart, she paces the bedroom, opening and closing her truck to double- and triple-check its contents, and sits down on her bed, only to jump back up and begin the process again.

She knows that she should get some sleep to prepare for the next day, but she can't seem to rest. She's nervous, she's excited… she's absolutely anxious.

Jumping on her bed, she peers out the window, waiting for the sun to rise to mark the new day, the day that would begin her career as a Hogwarts student. Instead, she catches sight of the garden below and falters. She remembers what her mother once told her – that gardens are for dreams come true.

She hesitates at first. Even if no one can hear her, she feels somewhat silly and embarrassed for wishing upon a garden.

"I wish…" There's so much to wish for that she doesn't know how to begin. "I wish that Hogwarts is more than I've ever dreamed of. I wish that it'll be just as exciting, if not more, than the stories everyone tells me. I wish that I'll make friends – and that I'll even make a really good friend, one that I can tell all my secrets to."

The sun hasn't risen yet, so she returns to her pacing. But this time, when she opens up her trunk, she catches sight of a small book that she hadn't noticed before. Pulling it out, she flips through the pages to find that it's entirely blank, except for a name engraved on the cover.

Evidently not a textbook. More like… a journal.

Strange.

xxxxxxx

She's fourteen, watching the clock tick in a room that isn't hers. Hermione is in the bed below her, already asleep. Careful not to awaken the friend she knew to sleep lightly, she steals down from her bunk to the floor, wandering over to the window and watching the moon spill its light over a grassy plain.

She misses the view from her bedroom window back at the Burrow. She misses the forest that would rise just at the horizon, her mum's garden directly below, and the vast plain between them that was the setting of her childhood memories. Those memories remind her of a distant time not riddled in black.

Lately, all of their lives seem to revolve around one character – one she once would adamantly insist was a protagonist. Every time she hears his name, her heart clenches slightly, though she can't pinpoint the exact emotion that accompanies it. Guilt, fury, vengeance… and she's frightened to find a small hint of mourning in that twist, the mourning of the death of a friend she once treasured.

Harry had mentioned the "secret weapon" that the adults whispered about. He feared possession. She _knows_ possession. Sometimes, she still feels it encompassing her. Horrible, frightening, agonizing, and somehow _secure_, in that it would always be there for her to fall back on, even though she consciously argues against it.

She sighs, trailing a finger along the glass. It's cool to touch. "I wish…"

Hermione mutters something as she rolls over. There's a short period of silence before she mutters, "Did you say something, Ginny?"

She looks once more at the plain before shaking her head, tearing her gaze away. "Nothing." She climbs back up to her bed. "There's nothing at all."

xxxxxxx

She's sixteen, co-leader of the reinstated Dumbledore's Army, and tonight is the eve of the battle she doesn't yet know will occur, where she'll be with Harry and face Lord Voldemort. From her window in the Gryffindor Tower, she watches the horizon where shapes and colors blur into a line. One of those indistinguishable shapes is Harry's. She wishes she was there with him.

When her gaze drifts away from the horizon and falls onto the Herbology gardens lining the hills below, she almost laughs. It's too perfect. Placing a hand on the frosted window, she whispers, "I wish I could see him again." She falters. Does she really wish that? A small part of her yearns for something a little less dangerous, a little more secure… and she sees comforting words washing over her written in an elegant, spiking hand, black ink against white parchment. A small part of her yearns to see not Harry again, but Tom.

She shakes her head and clears her thoughts. She'd rather have the truth than a lie. "I wish I could wake up tomorrow to find him here."

Silence answers her prayer. She didn't expect a reply. She doesn't expect much of anything anymore. She noticed several days ago that her mind has taken a more reminiscent quality, phrases thought in past tense as if everything was already over, even as she continued to fight and rage and curse, because even if she believes everything's falling, she'll be damned if she'll let gravity take her down that easily.

She slips into bed and releases the drapes of the canopy from its binding. She has reason to sleep tonight. She'll need the energy tomorrow for the Army's meeting in the Room of Requirements.

xxxxxxx

She's twenty-one. The war is over, there's peace, and Harry is next to her in bed. Happily married, she responds when asked about her relationship. Happily married, and happily settled.

But when she once wanted so much for a settled life, she now feels uneasy with it. She doesn't belong in a peaceful atmosphere. Her soul is far too much in turmoil to satisfy with a simple life, and she's too eager for something more. She's always _expecting_ something more that never comes.

She doesn't know if Harry shares these sentiments.

The memory shadowing her – the memory that once offered protection – now offers her the danger she's looking for. Strange, how one memory could encompass so many emotions so that it could always answer her needs and wants, no matter the situation. And wouldn't that be nice, to always be given what she's looking for? To be given a world at her command?

She stops, eyes wide, appalled that the thought should even cross her mind. She shakes her head, refusing to continue thinking in such a direction. No. It's too dangerous.

_But isn't danger what you wanted…? A life on the edge?_

Silk sheets wrinkle within her clenching fists. No. No, no, no, she can't, she can't… There are other ways to find thrills. She could trade her Chaser position on the Holyhead Harpies for an Auror position alongside Harry, or join Charlie in chasing dragons. The world was still full of danger; she just hadn't gone looking for it.

Restless, she swings her legs over the side of the bed and exits the house for fresh air to clear her mind of the memory that has stalked her since she first met it in the diary. And now she understood it would never leave her, a shadowy voice sleeping in the back of her mind, murmuring at her weakest times, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Looking up, she finds herself in the garden, and her thoughts reminisce to a belief she once held. _You'll be damned if you let gravity take you down that easily_. She laughs. She's already damned.

Should she continue fighting? She runs her fingers over the tall grasses. "I wish I knew what I wanted."

Her mind flickers to Tom.

Just as quickly, she pushes him back aside.

xxxxxxx

She's twenty-four, a mother of an adorable boy whose name she begrudges. James Potter, Harry had insisted. She had acquiesced for she understood his need, but she hates how strong of a reminder James' name is to her of the past. She already has Tom following her. She doesn't need other reminders of what should be deceased added to her daily routine.

It's not that she doesn't love James, for she does. She just hates his name and what it represents, and for that reason, she's never called him James. He is always "my child," "my baby," "my boy," "my love." Harry's started to notice this habit. He hasn't done anything worse than a joke thrown here and there, but she fears one day he'll honestly question her, and she doesn't know how she'll explain.

In her womb there's another child. Albus Severus, Harry has already decided. She thinks that name is even more ghastly than James'.

Tom also never had his own name. Tom Marvolo, a name taken from an abandoning father and an insane grandfather. He created his own name, one that all others learned to fear. Tom would understand the need for something new, the need for a fresh start.

She won't have her children haunted by ghosts. She knows what that feels like, and she doesn't want that to happen to them. Not to her children, her babies, her boys, her loves. She doesn't want them to experience what she does, how she's afraid of her own mind, how she can't even allow herself to think freely, how she's always censoring herself until the fire that used to burn vividly is dulled to ash, how she feels helpless, how she feels like she's going _insane_.

How she's absolutely weak, how she's absolutely desperate, how tired she is of fighting and watching and how easy it seems to be to succumb.

She strides purposefully into the garden this time. "I wish you'd get out of my mind, Tom." She summons the last bits of fire within her to spit out these words. "Stop lurking around in the corners. Come out and face me."

"Dear Ginny." That voice is too close. She can feel his hot breath against the back of her neck. A pale hand snakes around her waist and rests upon her stomach, massaging it in light circles. "I presume this is Albus Severus?" Her lips tighten as he drawls. "Charming name."

"What do you want from me?"

He places his hands on her hips and turns her around to face him. He looks just the same as she's always imagined him, and she hates that. "I want your wishes," he answers. "I want to make them come true."

She scowls. "I want you to leave."

His lips pull into a smirk, and she's entranced by that action. "But you don't wish that."

"Yes I – "

"What you wish for," he interrupted smoothly, "is for a world without a second of boredom, but a world where you can be comforted with knowing it'll always end in a happily ever after. You want a story that always moves forward in a setting where you're loved and your children safe and blessed."

She doesn't want to listen to him. "I want a world where I won't lose myself to parasites."

"You want control. You want a world where you're always given what you're looking for, a world at your command."

His words tug at her heart. They seem so familiar, but she can't place why.

"You want," he continues, "what I can give you."

She shakes her head. "And what can you give me?"

He leans in close so that she can feel his lips move against her ear. "Someone who knows you better than anyone else. Someone who knows your guilty wishes you'll never even whisper to a garden. Someone who will leap into the future with you." His fingers graze her stomach. "Someone who can care for a child with his own unique name." His fingers move to her wrist, tempting her hand to take his.

When she complies and slips her fingers through, she doesn't think about the memory that consumed her and escaping to feed on her children.

Behind her, the garden blooms.

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**Reviews/mission opinions & critiques much appreciated.**


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